


Pride and Prejudice & Rock 'n' Roll

by thebrightestbird



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Humor, M/M, Mild Language, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-01-11 06:17:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18424605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebrightestbird/pseuds/thebrightestbird
Summary: “Freddie?” Roger rasps out the name quietly, not wanting to shift the wrath in their direction. “Yes, dear?” “What are we witnessing right now?” Because fighting is quite common among all of them, but Deacy and Brian seem to have taken the usual disagreements about songs and performance to a new plateau. “Um, well,” Freddie blinks rapidly, tilting his head thoughtfully, “I do believe that’s foreplay.”Very loosely based on Jane Austen'sPride and Prejudice. Deacy is Lizzy, Brian is Darcy, and Freddie and Roger are just doing their best to help out their lovesick mates and get the damn demo finished.|| COMPLETE ||





	1. As It Began

**Author's Note:**

> So ... this is the Brian/John love story that I've been dropping mentions of in my other Queen stories. My usual silly and sweet combo with some eventual angst and smolder inspired by "White Queen (As It Began)," my favorite Queen ballad.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good bass guitar must be in want of an electric guitar instead.

That’s a damn lie, and Deacy will throw hands with anyone who dares accuse him of such a notion.

Especially Brian fucking May.

The guitarist isn’t saying those exact words, but the way he’s lecturing about the sanctity of his latest guitar solo, he’s basically dismissing any need for his musical skills or his input about the solo itself.

Deacy knows how to play a guitar too, which means he knows you don’t always need  _that_  much guitar.

“So, basically two chords played over and over and over for three minutes. That’s your grand work?”

Brian looks at John like he just said the Earth is flat. The amount of outrage he’s able to express is quite extraordinary. Very impressive and hilarious at the same time.

“I’m sorry, John. Is your brilliant suggestion that I play a grand total of zero chords or notes for this song?”

“I’m just saying that you could let go of the same frets sometimes, Brian.”

“Oh, yes, your love of  _space_  in a song.  _Please_ ,” he rolls his eyes, “that’s not art. That’s laziness.”

“You  _arrogant_  son of a …”

Meanwhile, Freddie and Roger are front row for World War III sat in the auditorium chairs in the Imperial College classroom they often reserve for rehearsal space, their feuding bandmates having apparently forgotten their presence.

“Freddie?” Roger rasps out the name quietly, not wanting to shift the wrath in their direction.

“Yes, dear?”

“What are we witnessing right now?” Because fighting is quite common among all of them, but Deacy and Brian seem to have taken the usual disagreements about songs and performance to a new plateau.

“Um, well,” Freddie blinks rapidly, tilting his head thoughtfully, “I do believe that’s foreplay.”

Roger observes his bandmates yet again, this time with fresh perspective. Brian’s just called Deacy’s jumper juvenile. Deacy snarks back that only Swiss yodelers wear clogs.

“Oh,” Roger breathes in realization.

||

Luckily, there’s no blood to clean up or bodies to hide from the fight. Brian and John have classes and labs in the morning and simply end their argument with huffs and weary “fuck you”s.

Roger and Freddie feel the need to do some damage control before the night is out. Roger drags John to one pub, Freddie takes Brian to another.

“He’s such a prick!” John screams too loudly.

Roger nods in agreement.

“Like he’s the only man on the planet who can play a stringed instrument. Let’s see him play a harp or something. Bet he won’t be so high and mighty then.”

“Actually, I think Freddie has a song in his head that’ll require Brian to learn a harp. He’ll probably get good at that too. If not for his ego, then for Freddie’s.”

Deacy ponders that and pouts. “Of course, he will.”

“But, mate, don’t tell me you couldn’t pick up the bloody harp if you wanted to.” Roger soothes his friend with a hand on the shoulder. “You two are scary similar when it comes to adeptness with instruments.”

That’s true. John can’t begrudge Brian for his musical acumen when he himself is so fiercely ambitious with his own knowledge. But nothing’s going to stop him from being bitter about it (at least for tonight). “Why do you even need another bass player? He knows bass as well. I haven’t been with the band for even a year. Wouldn’t be any trouble just recording the demo without me.”

There’s the crux of John’s insecurities that Roger was waiting for. “That’s bollocks. If that were the case, we would have done so without bothering to hire you in the first place.”

“But Brian doesn’t want me.”

_Curious wording_ , Roger thinks. “Deacs, he was the first to vouch for you. He admires your skills. One row isn’t going to change how much he wants you.” He almost leaves the statement at that before catching John’s brow raise. “In the band,” he lamely amends, avoiding eye contact. "How much he wants you, um, in the band."

John huffs. “You sure? He was so insistent about not changing a damn thing with his solo.”

“Trust me. I’ve known Brian longest. He’ll bitch over any suggestion, brood over the night, seriously consider it, and come back with the changes and something even more phenomenal so you can’t stay mad at him.” He takes a pull from his sadly ignored lager. “The infuriatingly brilliant bastard.”

John hopes Roger is right. For the sake of his place in the band and for the troubling, urgent need within him to keep Brian’s favor.

||

“So, how did it go for you?” Roger asks Freddie once they’re back at their flat.

“Brian’s a clueless fool. As we suspected.”

“No hint of knowledge of how much he wants to bang our bass player?”

Freddie sighs. “At first, it was all, ‘He’s young; he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.’ Then, on the third pint, he starts moaning about how unfairly clever Deacy is because  _maybe_ some variation in rests could add depth to the solo. Acknowledging how clever he is set Bri off on the time he watched Deacy work on his amp, and honestly, it was an odd mix of pride and outright pornography with how he described the stroking of tools, and I just cut him off after that and took him home.”

“Deacy wasn’t much better,” Roger admits.

Freddie comes to sit next to his flatmate on their tiny, secondhand couch. “I’m afraid it’s up to us now.”

“Freddie,” Roger whines, “why can’t we ignore this like they are?”

The singer bops him on the head with the diary he’s just pulled from his satchel. “The quicker they’re shagging, the quicker we become rock stars.”

Roger scrunches his face in annoyance and confusion. “Those don’t quite correlate.”

Freddie groans. It’s such a burden being the emotionally astute one. “Once we fix Brian and John, we can finally finish the fucking demo.” 

“Oh, right,” Roger's brain finally catching up with the logic.

Freddie opens up his diary, pencil at the ready. “Now, let’s plan, shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually don't know if Brian can play bass. But he's learned every other stringed instrument in the history of creation, so my assumption is probably a sound one.


	2. Smiling Dark Eyes

A couple days later, the four bandmates are back together rehearsing for their weekend gig.

And Brian shares his revamped solo.

He peeks up shyly at Deacy as he plays. The bass player manages to maintain his patented neutral face of displeasure for 20 seconds before he breaks because, damn him, Brian’s a phenomenal guitarist.

The solo’s still too long though, and Deacy teases him by pelting him with peanuts at the 2-minute mark. Brian looks up in annoyance, rolling his eyes and huffing a laugh at the antics, not missing a note. 

Miracle of miracles, the rehearsal finishes without a fight this time. Instead, they’re laughing and improvising, confident enough in their planned set to let loose as they wrap up.

Freddie springs into action. "You know, dearies, we could go out to the usual pubs tonight, but I'm in the mood for something a little different."

Roger clears his throat. "A picture, perhaps?" he innocently suggests. "Everyone keeps raving about the latest 'Star Wars.' "

Brian's eyes light up. "I've been wanting to see that."

"Me too," Deacy says.

"What a fabulous coincidence," Freddie blatantly lies because he knows the boys have been dropping not-so-subtle suggestions to see the film since its release. "I'm sure we'll love it."

||

"I don't like 'Star Wars.' "

"Freddie!" Roger shushes. "I'm watching."

"I don't think Luke should trust that little green goblin."

"Yoda's teaching him the ways of the Force! He's totally trustworthy."

A couple in front of them turn to shush them both.

"Sorry," Roger mumbles.

"Anyway, are Bri and Deacy making out yet?"

They turn around to check on their friends near the back of the room.

"How surprising," Roger says, dryly, "they're actually paying attention to the picture. Lucky them."

"We're not here to watch the damn thing. The plan was to have them making out by the picture's end."

The couple shush them again.

"Oh, mind your own business," Freddie bites back.

As anticipated, the cinema on a Friday evening was crowded, meaning seating all four of them together wouldn't be likely. Since Brian is tall and has a view-blocking shrub on his head, he typically stays in the back seats out of courtesy. Freddie and Roger practically shoved John into the seat next to him before they went to find seats up front.

"Bri's whispering something," Roger says.

"Deacy looks so smitten,” Freddie sighs. “It must be absolute poetry … "

“ … Outer space wouldn’t allow for a fireball explosion like that. You would need some kind of oxidizer for the fiery sort of combustion we’re familiar with on Earth.”

John presses his lips together in a futile effort to not grin at Brian’s outrage over the scientific inaccuracies of a ‘Star Wars’ film.

“You see, space is essentially a vacuum-”

John interrupts by pressing a finger to the doctoral student’s lips. “Brian, I am aware that space is a vacuum. And I don’t care. I want to see the spaceships smash into each other and go boom.”

Brian’s lips are slightly parted (as they always are), his warm breath practically licking the pad of his finger. Deacy drags his finger ever so slowly away, tip catching on his bottom lip before disappearing.

“Just relax and enjoy the fantasy,” he whispers.

John faces the screen again. Brian was going to let his eyes linger on the handsome profile when he hears indignant grumbling near the front of the theater.

It’s Freddie and Roger turned toward them wearing twin expressions of outrage.

A couple shushes them loudly.

||

“I cannot believe you all were entertained by that madness,” Freddie laments as they walk to the car park, the others chatting excitedly about the film.

John moves to the singer’s side and loops their arms. “There wasn’t anything you enjoyed about it, Fred?”

The singer shrugs. “I’ll admit it gave me some costume ideas. More capes, perhaps.”

“That's all?” Brian asks.

Freddie lets mischief show on his face. “Future possibilities for my entrances onstage too.”

Roger rolls his eyes. “Always looking for inspiration for your performances. Just enjoy something to enjoy it.”

“Darling, of course, I’m always seeking inspiration. It’s for us. For Queen. That’s our future.”

At that, John looks away from Freddie and the others.

When they reach Roger’s van, Freddie feigns tiredness, pulling his arm from John’s suddenly tighter grasp and stretching exaggeratedly. “Ugh, I’m absolutely knackered. Rog, how about you?”

The drummer’s confused. He and Freddie don’t get tired on weekends. That’s just not how being young, hot musicians works.

Freddie gives him an anxious, purposeful shifting of his eyes between Deacy and Brian.  _Right, the plan._  Roger fake-yawns. “We should get back to ours, yeah. Get rested for the gig tomorrow.”

“Terrific!” Freddie chirps. “Brian, take care of Deacy,” he commands. “Make sure he gets home all right.”

“Freddie, I’m capable of getting myself home.”

But the singer’s waving off the complaint, quick to get in the van. “Goodbye, dearies! See you later. I’ll be wanting all the details.”

Roger wastes no time driving off, Brian’s head not quite processing Freddie’s last comment in time. “Wait, what details?!” he yells too late. He turns to John. “What is Freddie on about?”

Deacy shrugs. “It’s Freddie. Maybe he thinks there’s inspiration to be had from my bus ride and your drive home.”

At the mention of the bus, Brian offers the obvious to his friend. “I can drive you home, Deacs.”

And his friend gives the usual reply. “I’m the opposite direction. The bus is fine.”

“Oh,” Brian awkwardly looks away.

“You could wait with me at the bus stop though. Wouldn’t mind the company.”

The suggestion shifts the other man’s focus back, eyes dark and smiling. They walk at a snail’s pace toward the stop.

“How are your studies?” Brian asks.

“I’m managing. Probably will lock myself in the library all day before the gig though.”

“Same,” Brian huffs. “I have so much secondary research to gather before I can even consider doing my own.”

“It’s going well though?” John lets concern color the question. “You’re still on track?”

Brian bites his bottom lip, brow knitting. “I’m managing,” he finally answers, echoing Deacy’s earlier answer.

The difference is that John’s was an honest answer. He’s doing well, despite his involvement in the band, and is committed to never wavering in his studies.

They reach the bus stop. Deacy ignores the older man's poor effort to dismiss his troubles. “What’s the holdup, Brian? You’re too passionate about your degree to let it slide.”

Brian swallows hard, not directly looking at the stern gaze. “It’s just that … we’re on the brink.”

“We?”

“The band,” Brian responds, as if there is only one answer for who “we” could be.

It really should be the most obvious answer. Somehow though — despite being surrounded by other people waiting on the bus and being the bassist in “the band” and being a productive member of society at large — John for a fleeting moment could only fathom the “we” that was himself and Brian May.

That was a thought for another time, however. Brian’s right. The only “we” of concern right now is Queen. “So, we’ve gathered a few more fans, a few more shows.”

“We’re booked every weekend for the next four months, Deacy. We’ll have the demo finished soon enough and a record deal almost immediately after.”

“You can’t be sure of that,” John weakly insists.

Brian scrutinizes the younger man, a sad suspicion forming. “You don’t want it.”

“No!” comes immediately and forcefully. “That’s not it. Of course, I want us to be successful.”

Brian doesn’t believe him but bites his tongue.

“You know, statistically speaking, most albums don’t even chart in the U.K. You and Roger know that.”

Bringing up Smile’s failure is a bold maneuver. Deacy must really be troubled by the possibilities of fame. "Queen isn't another Smile. We have Freddie." The guitarist pauses meaningfully. "We have  _you_."

John's face is incredulous, to put it kindly. "It's still risky. Is it worth delaying your other dream? The one you are certainly capable of accomplishing?"

Deacy's asking nothing new. Brian's wrestled with the opposing interests all his adult life, stubbornly insisting until recently that both are possible. He suspects the younger man is going through the same struggle. Unfortunately, they seem to be turning toward opposite directions.

Brian can't bring himself to say all of that. Instead, the older man brings a hand up to force a pesky lock of hair from his friend's soft features. "I think we're worth it, Deacy."

Again, John's troubled by the imprecise "we."

The bus finally arrives — to their relief and regret. Before boarding, Deacy's somber eyes find his. "Not all of us are meant to be rock stars, Bri."   

With that, he boards and waves goodbye through the windows. He keeps looking as Brian turns around and gets farther out of reach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You: The Star Wars sequel didn't come out in 1970. It came out in 1980."
> 
>  
> 
> Deacy, shushing you with a finger to your lips: “Just relax and enjoy the fantasy."


	3. Stars of Lovingness

“Freddie, no makeup tonight.”

Deacy is sat on a footstool as their lead singer looms with an eyeshadow palette and tiny brush prepared to paint his face for their performance.

Freddie drops his arms disappointedly. “How are we still quarreling about this?”

“Before every gig, you will approach me with that blasted makeup like this time will be different than all the other times I’ve told you I don’t want it, and we will quarrel.”

Deep sigh. “And then I will proceed to explain to you, darling, that we are a Glam. Rock. Band.”

“We’re whatever we wish to be, Freddie. You wish to be in a skintight leotard, no one questions it. But when I want to wear something comfortable-”

“Oh, not this again,” Freddie interrupts. “You still want to wear dungarees?!”

“There’s nothing wrong with them!”

“You’re barely 20, dear. Why do you insist on dressing half your age or twice your age? If you had your way, you’d be wearing a Christmas jumper most nights.”

“Well, now that you bring it up-”

“No!” Freddie looks to the heavens for strength. “Never going to happen.”

Deacy stands so he can glare at Freddie at eye level, then starts unbuttoning his star-spangled shirt.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m done with this. I will damn well wear what I please. I won’t pretend to be something I’m not.”

John was expecting some kind of outrageous reaction from Freddie. He’s not prepared for the gentle hands wrapping around his own as his fingers fight with a button. “John, what’s this really about?” he softly asks.

Deacy looks up owlishly at his friend. His gorgeous, talented friend. So comfortable in his glamour. Freddie’s so bright, he has to look away. “I’m, uh, I’m n-not meant for this, Fred.”

Freddie moves his face into John’s view, forcing him to see his concern. He doesn’t ask anything though, simply lets the weight of his silence impel him to explain.

“I love playing with you all. I really do. It’s been the most exciting, freeing time of my life.”

Freddie gives an encouraging smile.

Deacy takes a breath. “It’s also been absolutely terrifying.”

The hands wrapped around his tighten in response.

“I’m not like you, Freddie. There’s only one destiny for you — to perform. I’m not like Roger. He’s nonstop with his grand ideas and ambitions. I’m not like Brian, who writes music as easy as breathing.”

“So, what?” Freddie shrugs. “You’re John Deacon. You bring fresh perspective and technical wizardry.” He cups his face. “You’re none of us, and that makes you absolutely perfect for Queen.”

John gives a lopsided smile at the praise. “Believe it or not, I think I’m perfect for Queen, as well.”

Freddie frowns in confusion. “Then why the turmoil, love?”

“I’m afraid I might not be perfect for what Queen is meant to become.”

Roger and Brian burst through the dressing room door before Freddie can respond.

“You boys ready?” Roger asks.

Freddie pulls away from Deacy, placing his palms on his chest and sighing dramatically. “I suppose we are since a certain bass player yet again refuses to wear makeup.”

Deacy plays his part and indulgently rolls his eyes. Bless Freddie and his deflection techniques. He wasn’t looking for a profound heart-to-heart about his dumb insecurities with the rest of the band right as they’re to perform.

“Lost this round, did ya, Fred?” Brian asks, amused.

“I’m afraid so,” Freddie laments. “Oh, well. There’s always the next show.” He winks at Deacy and wastes no more time heading out. “Let’s rock ’n’ roll, darlings!”  

“Yeah, let’s do this!” Roger whoops as he follows Freddie.

Deacy and Brian glance at each other, sharing a look of fondness for their bandmates’ unrestrained enthusiasm. They start to leave as well when Brian stops suddenly. “John, your shirt’s a bit undone.”

“Oh,” he breathes, realizing he never rebuttoned after his tantrum with Freddie. He moves to do them up again when long fingers beat him to it.

Brian makes quick work of the renegade buttons. “There you are,” he smiles. “You look good tonight. I always liked this shirt on you.”

With that, the guitarist turns to catch up to the others. John looks down at the field of stars on his chest and lightly brushes the buttons that Brian touched.

He supposes some glam isn’t too bad.

||

Brian’s senses are overwhelmed.

The club is wall-to-wall bodies rocking as one to the rhythm. The lights shining down feel like torches setting them ablaze. The smoke and the sweat in the air is filthy yet sweet.

And _their music_ , he can feel it emanating from below, penetrating him from the soles of his feet, shooting up through his long legs, spreading from his core, propelling his fingers to fly over his guitar so he can feed the cycle, the circuit, the entity that is _their music_.

It flows through them all, the direction apparent in the way Freddie moves onstage. One moment he’s out as far as the stage lets him, his siren’s call cascading from the frontlines of the crowd to the wallflowers at the farthest corners. Now, he’s next to John, leaning along his back, soaking up the steady beat the bassist provides. Freddie practically pirouettes around to face Roger, taking the full brunt of the drummer’s thunderous sound.

When Freddie finally reaches him, Brian has to close his eyes for a second to steel himself. If their music is an entity, then Freddie is its beating heart and the blood it circulates. The rush he brings is better than any drug.

If Brian’s being totally honest with himself, it’s a lot like sex. Probably because Freddie likes to play with him in that manner. He’ll grind on his mic stand as close as possible to Brian, present the screech and wail of his guitar to the crowd like a buildup, ultimately crash to his knees because it’s all too much, and happily ride the aftershocks from below for as long as Brian desires.

Suddenly, Brian throws the sex metaphor out the door. Too conventional, too earthly. What he’s feeling right now onstage is so far beyond that.

No, there’s absolutely nothing comparable to being part of the entity that is Queen.

He’d sacrifice anything for it.

||

After shows, the band typically gets varying levels of praise, from the usual “Enjoyed it, mate!” or “Great show” to the unforgettable “Fuck me, I think that drum solo got me pregnant.” (Rog was chuffed to bits.)

Then there are the birds who flock to them. They’ve increased in number as their popularity has grown. They flip their hair, bat their eyelashes, whisper praise and many times promises of what they could do for them in exchange for their fantastic performance. All four of them have indulged in the extra company from time to time.

Tonight, however, Freddie had insisted they all go to a nearby disco (“I need to dance the adrenaline out, darling.”), and even Roger had been exceptionally keen to go (“Crap music but surprisingly cheap booze.”).

They had all politely turned away the girls and thanked them for coming to the show. Deacy, though, was taking a bit longer with one of them.

The other three band members had finished packing the equipment into the van and stared at the pair. The curvy blonde is chatting quite animatedly, complete with unrestrained laughter that John shares, eyes squinting and gapped teeth on full display.

The bass player senses the three pairs of eyes on him and cuts the conversation short, giving the girl an apologetic look and friendly wave goodbye as he makes his way to them.

“I’m ready,” he simply says as he jumps into the van. “Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Deacy in his true habitat — a disco.


	4. On Such a Breathless Night as This

Brian’s senses are overwhelmed.

This time, however, he might actually vomit.      

There are lights in all colors of the spectrum swirling about. The music sounds like a bunch of deflating balloons. The mixture of cigarette and weed smoke with incense is choking him.

Disco, he thinks, is like a fever dream come to life.

Brian turns to look at what Roger’s ordering at the bar. He thought it was a shot, but what he gets is half a tumbler of amber liquid. Roger, of course, still shots it.

“I can’t believe you agreed to this place.”

Roger sucks a lime slice. “Two more of these will make the aural trauma worth it.” He scans the bar. “And some time with that redhead. Might be a happenin’ night.”

Brian hums noncommittally, his eyes finding Freddie and John, who had wasted no time hitting the dancefloor as soon as they arrived. They’re still dancing but seem distracted and amused by someone doing the Robot extremely well. (And, yes, Brian can appreciate something done right even when it’s not his interest. He’s not a total prat.)

Roger notices his focus. “Mate, when are you going to make a move?”

“What?”

Roger jerks his head with emphasis in the direction of the dancefloor.

“You expect me to dance?”

“I mean Deacy!”

Brian scrunches his face. “What about Deacy?”

Roger’s jaw drops. “Fuck, I thought Freddie might’ve been wrong about how dense you are, but Christ, man.”

In response, the drummer gets a long, dumb face staring back at him.

Heavy sigh. “I’m sorry, Bri, but this is for your own good.”

“Wha-”

Roger grabs a hand and pulls his friend through the throng of bodies. “Oi, Fred!” His spectacular voice manages to cut through the music, John and Freddie turning to them as soon as they meet.

Freddie’s eyes light up with their arrival, and he makes eye contact with Roger.

Plan B is a go.

Freddie spin-hurls Deacy into Brian, and without looking back, dances away with Roger in his arms. (Roger conveniently dances Freddie right back to the bar — to the singer’s dismay.)

Deacy and Brian are stood awkwardly in each other’s space like teenagers at a formal dance.

Gradually, John starts swaying out of instinct while Brian stays still as a statue. 

"You get your research done?" John yells over the music.

Brian's bemused by the randomness. He bends to answer closer to the younger man's ear. "You're asking me this now?"

"You're not dancing. Might as well ask what I'm curious about."

He smirks. "Yes, mum. I did my homework."

Deacy looks down at Brian's still unmoving feet. "You know, I don't think you truly hate disco music."

Brian raises his eyebrows in inquiry.

"You just don't know how to dance."

"It’s not that,” Brian insists. “I simply don't care about _disco_ dancing."

"Look at how much fun it is!" Deacy demonstrates by doing some kind of whipping motion with his arms and twisting his hips.

"What the hell is _that_?!"

"The Lawnmower. Try it."

Brian laughs out a "no" as Deacy does the dance while circling him.

The dancing Queen finally stops after a couple of revolutions. "Okay, how about this one?" He places one hand behind his head and stretches his other arm straight in front. He moves the bent arm back and forth and his upper body kind of turns a bit with every complete motion.

"Now, what are you doing?"

"The Sprinkler!" He stops and makes grabby hands to try to place Brian's arms in the proper positions.

"No, Deacy!" he resists. "I have long arms. I'll probably accidentally slap someone."

The music shifts at that moment to something with a heavier bass and a less saccharine groove. John still has a grip on one of Brian's arms. The dancers around them adapt, bodies pressing together even more so than before, two (sometimes three) become one — moving as one.

Brian feels the hand on his arm glide smoothly upward behind his shoulder. Hooded eyes lock onto his curious hazel. He tugs Brian closer to speak in his ear. “Think you can manage this dance?” He doesn’t pull back after posing the question, and Brian can feel the rapid breaths on his sensitive skin.

His hands find John’s slim waist in answer, fingers slipping through belt loops. John pulls his head back to look at Brian with wide eyes, apparently surprised that his challenge was accepted. His tongue peeks between his teeth, holding back a wider smile, only allowing Brian a coy one.

Deacy takes the lead, an easy side-to-side, front-and-back movement of their hips. One of his hands is still securely grasping his shoulder, while the other has snaked around to his lower back, further controlling Brian’s movements.

Despite the dangerous proximity of their lower halves, John keeps their upper bodies somewhat apart by throwing his head back, eyes closed, reveling in the rhythm. Brian studies the beatific face. It’s not conventionally handsome; instead, it’s incredibly soft, openly kind, and at this moment, the most beautiful creation he’s ever seen.

John’s eyes flutter open, as if waking from slumber, and he stares at Brian like he’s in awe as well — and Brian’s breathless by the possibility. After a minute (or an eternity) of the intense gaze, John turns his head to press his temple to Brian’s shoulder and keeps moving them to the beat.

Brian’s senses are overwhelmed.

This time, however, if he’s being honest with himself, it’s a lot like love.

||

Then the music changes.

John jolts apart from Brian like he’d been doused in cold water. He takes in deep breaths, eyes wide with shock.

Brian, at first, is confused by the sudden lack of bassist in his arms. When he looks at Deacy and notices his troubled state, he reaches out in concern. Deacy takes a step back to avoid his hand. “What’s the matter?”

John swallows hard. “I,” he starts, cuts himself off, takes another breath, and starts again. “I, uh, I have to go.”

“Go?!” Brian shouts in confusion.

“To the loo,” John quickly amends.

The older man squints in disbelief.

“Really,” Deacy tries to reassure. “I need to go badly.”

Brian shakes his head for lack of any better response.

“I’ll meet you back at the bar,” John says before turning away. Brian watches the younger man as he walks in the direction of, yes, the lavatory.

Not wanting to come off as overbearing by following John, Brian goes back to the bar as instructed, his only choice being to trust that Deacy was honest about not being troubled by ~~Brian~~ something else.

Back at the bar, he’s greeted by the twin smugness of his bandmates.

“Not so dense now, are ya?” Roger gloats.

“That was quite a display out there, darling.” Freddie raises his glass to Brian before taking a sip.

Brian’s tempted to play ignorant to spite them, but he’s too happy about his revelation to sully it with denial. “Shut up, you two,” he half-heartedly demands instead.

He’s about to order something and is considering what Deacy might want as well when Roger nudges him. “Uh, is that the blonde bird Deacy was talking to after the show?”

Brian turns around to see where Roger’s looking. John’s made it out of the lavatory and is talking to, Roger’s right, the same girl. She’s making him laugh again, and as the music changes, she gets quite excited about the song, jumping up and down and pulling Deacy by the hand to the dancefloor.

“You think he invited her to join us here?” Freddie wonders.

Brian doesn’t try to answer, just quietly studies the duo. The blonde seems just as into dancing as Deacy is, although he can’t say she’s actually good. She unashamedly tries though, bouncing and twirling, all the while with a smile on her face. And John, with a full smile stretching his face, is enjoying her efforts. His eyes never leave her.

“I have to go,” Brian finds himself echoing Deacy’s previous words, without amendment this time.

Freddie and Roger look at him in question and concern.

“Now?” Freddie asks. “You just,” he pauses, at a rare loss for words, “but … what about Deacy?”

“He’s fine. He’s dancing with someone.”

“Bollocks,” Roger scoffs. “Don’t be a coward.”

Brian grits his teeth to keep a scathing comeback at bay.

“It’s just one dance with someone else,” Freddie tries to reason. The music changes, and Deacy and the girl keep dancing. The singer rolls his eyes in annoyance. “Two dances then.”

“Don’t cock this up, Bri,” Roger pleads, crass words softened by the concerned quiver of his lips.

Brian takes another look at the duo on the dancefloor. They’re now doing the Bump dance.

They’re ridiculously adorable.

“I’ll see you two later,” he says decisively and bolts for the exit.

||

Roger and Freddie can only stay sat despondently at the bar after Brian leaves.

“He’s an absolute idiot,” Roger proclaims. “He’s fucking brilliant — and an absolutely clueless, bloody idiot.”

Freddie nods in agreement. “We have to fix this.”

Roger’s ready to argue that Brian can fucking fix this his own damn self when Deacy comes to them with his dance partner in tow.

“Oi, fellas,” Deacy breathes out, panting a bit from dancing, eyes bright, face glowing, “I want you to meet someone.” He’s all smiles until he notices their missing bandmate. “Where’s Brian?”

Freddie and Roger give him apologetic looks.

“He had to go,” Roger says, lacking any excuse other than the exact words Brian used.

Deacy looks suspicious at first, then he seems to realize something and his face changes to something like sad acceptance.

_Goddamn it,_ Roger thinks. _They’re going to have to fix this._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brilliant-boys-overthinking-feelings.mp3


	5. So Still I Wait

“You two have been trying to get Brian and Deacy together? As in shagging?”

Freddie and Roger nod in confirmation to Mary’s query.

“And let me guess, Brian mucked it up by overthinking things?”

More synchronous nodding.

“But Deacy seems to also be dragging his feet on jumping Brian’s bones?”

Nods and exasperated eyerolls.

“So, what’s your grand plan now?”

The boys simply wave their hands about in presentation of their surroundings.

“My birthday pool party? Then what?” Mary asks, skeptically. “Have there been any further steps to your plans besides ‘get them in the same place together in close proximity’?”

“Darling, they’ll be dressed in hardly anything here … and wet.”

Roger clears his throat. “We assume nature will simply take its course.”

Mary shakes her head in dismay. “You two are the absolute worst matchmakers.”

More nodding. “Yeah,” they murmur.

“Well, I gladly will support your efforts, but there are two major obstacles I foresee tonight.”

“What?” Freddie asks.

“Brian rang me to say he’d be late, which limits the amount of exposure the two will have.”

Roger dismisses that. “They’re so randy for each other that the first chance of wet skin-to-skin contact will expedite the entire process.” At least, that’s how it’d work for himself and any other warm-blooded human being. If this doesn’t work, Roger might be convinced his bandmates are fucking robots.

“Fair enough,” Mary concedes. “Unfortunately, I don’t see the other obstacle being so easily reconciled.”

“What, darling?”

She pointedly looks past their heads. They turn to see what’s the matter.

Deacy’s arrived with a familiar curvy blonde girl.

“Fuck me,” Roger mutters.

||

Brian doesn’t get to the party for a few hours. And he’s not dressed for swimming.

“Jesus Christ, why can’t anything be easy with these two?” Roger grouses when he sees the guitarist finally enter the home’s rear garden.

Brian goes straight to Mary, apologies falling from his lips. “I’m sooo sorry, Mary. Please forgive me.”

She turns her head to demand a kiss that he earnestly plants on her cheek. “Lateness is forgivable only when you have a gift to make up for it.”

Panic takes over Brian’s face. “Uh …”

“You forgot my gift.” It’s not a question.

“I was so busy today with readings and tutoring sessions … ” His voice trails when he notices Deacy in the pool playing with some children. He’s thoroughly outnumbered, and they all relentlessly splash him. He squeals in delight and makes weak threats of retaliation. Out of nowhere, a large splash strikes several of the children. The tiny outraged faces turn to see the source. A woman is sitting along the edge of the pool laughing and looking thoroughly pleased with her antics. With the children distracted, Deacy takes advantage and splashes back. It’s a proper splash fight then.

Brian notices how John and the woman are working as a team, perfectly in sync with their laughter and offensive splashing maneuvers. It reminds him of ...

Oh. It’s the girl from the disco.

Mary notices Brian’s face turn suddenly from delight while watching Deacy to something cold. Roger and Freddie look at her with matching concern. “Don’t worry about the gift. Brian, sweetheart,” she tries to pull his gaze from the pool, “it’s enough that you’re here now. Sit with us. Have a drink.”

He finally looks away, mutely nodding in assent. Roger unceremoniously shoves a beer bottle against Brian’s stomach, making him “oof” and waking him from his bitter thoughts.

||

“What about this part of the bridge?” Brian wonders.

“It should go, ‘Doo doo doo dah dah dah dahhh.’ ” Freddie sits back, sure in the clarity of his musical vision.

Brian stares blankly for a bit before everything clicks in his head. “Right, good call.” He jots down the note on his pad …

… That Mary mercilessly swipes from his hand. “No work at my party!”

Brian makes to grab it back, but she moves close to the pool and holds it above the water threateningly.

“Mary, darling, no!”

“I’m serious, Freddie. No more work.”

“But Mary,” Brian ~~whines~~ pleads, “I haven’t been able to really practice or write music all week.”

She remembers his reason for being late and notices the dark circles around his eyes. It’s a cruel thing Mary’s about to do, but she’s worried about him. “You’re on thin ice, May,” she says, still holding out the paper. “You’ve been doing too much, you’ve come late to my party not properly dressed to swim, and although you’re here now, you’ve cut yourself from,” she darts her eyes to where Deacy is with the girl he brought (something starting with a V or B, she doesn’t recall), “enjoying yourself.”

Brian’s frozen in disbelief over the situation. _Would Mary really toss his work in the pool?_ “Um, okay, I’m sorry?” He settles on an apology, the most English of responses.

“That’s not what I want!”

“Then what?!”

“Let yourself go when you have the chance! Have fun!” She pulls her arm back in perfect pitching form. “And go after what you really want!” Her hand propels forward in perfect follow-through.

There’s a large splash.

It’s not from the notepad. That’s still securely clasped in Mary’s hand.

No, it’s from Brian. He fell in foolishly trying to catch the bloody thing.

John hears a splash and looks in the direction of the commotion. He sees Mary and Freddie laughing themselves blue, then a dark head of hair pop up from the water. He wanders over, curiosity getting the better of him.

Mary’s waving a notepad around. “Oh, Brian, you thought I’d really throw it? I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“But you’d let me fall into the pool in my clothes?! I have to go home in these!”

Freddie rolls his eyes at the dramatics. “Then you’ll have to stay as long as they take to dry.” He looks at Deacy. “Darling, do you mind lending Brian a towel?”

He goes off to find the bag he brought. When he retrieves a towel, he returns to find that Freddie and Mary have wandered off and Brian’s slowly lifting himself from the pool.

_Is he really being slow?_ Deacy finds himself questioning his vision because, for whatever reason, seeing Brian rise from the pool is making the world around him very distant. There’s only Brian … wet. He’s wearing a white linen shirt that’s, of course, not buttoned all the way, and it clings to his lithe body. His dark trousers are also clinging, accentuating just how long Brian’s legs are. He runs both hands over his thick hair to pull it all away from his face, tilting his head back to help the water drip. When he rights his head again, he looks forward and immediately locks onto John.

And, no, John wasn’t imagining the slow motion, because it continues as Brian approaches. He feels anchored to where he’s stood, dumbly clutching a Mickey Mouse beach towel.

Finally, Brian reaches him, gives him a crooked, embarrassed smile, and blinks water droplets away. John’s heart stutters. He finds that he needs a break from Brian’s wet, handsome face, and instead of handing over the towel, he covers the entirety of Brian’s head and starts drying him.

Brian gives muffled protests. “Deacuh, wha da buck?!” He manages to pull the towel away after a few vigorous rubs.

When his face is exposed, Deacy lets himself study it again. Damn, still handsome. Not wet, at least. Progress.

He cracks a smile at the thought, and Brian mistakes it for friendliness, giving a smile in kind, sending his heart stuttering again. John internally sighs. _Taking one step forward, slipping two steps back_ , he thinks.

“Thank you,” Brian says, lifting the towel as if there was confusion to what he was referring. “We, uh,” he starts, but the awkwardness of trying to have a conversation while he’s sopping and Deacy’s shirtless is tying his tongue. He suspects, however, the reason Mary dunked him was for this conversation, so he might as well make the trauma worth it. “I haven’t seen much of you this week. How are you?”

The conventional question seems to throw the younger man. “You’d know if you came to practice this week,” he winces at his sass and immediately tries to temper his tone. “What kept you away?”

“A meeting with my mentor,” Brian explains. “It was the only time he had available.”

“Oh,” John breathes. He feels guilty for assuming the only reason Brian wasn’t at practice was because he was avoiding him. Then he remembers why he thought Brian was avoiding him, and the bitterness pushes the guilt aside so he can ask about what’s really been bothering him. “And why did you have to leave early from the disco?”

Brian hadn’t been expecting to be called out on that. “I had to go,” he stubbornly replies.

“Yeah, I heard. Why?” he asks again, matching Brian’s stubbornness.

Brian bites his bottom lip for a second. “Your dance card appeared to be booked.”

Realization flickers over Deacy’s face before he hardens again.

“And you seemed to be booked tonight, as well.” Brian kind of nods his head in the direction he last saw Deacy and the blonde girl together.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Bridget’s a childhood friend! We used to swim naked together in my paddling pool.”

Brian flinches. So, that explains some things.

“Am I not allowed company outside of Queen, Brian?”

“What?”

“It’s good to have a life outside of your work, to have more than a few people to turn to, people who aren’t the same ones who could make or break your future.”

Brian squeezes his eyes shut trying to understand where this is all coming from. “I never said you were only allowed to be with us. You’re a free man, John.”

“Then why are you upset that I’m spending time with someone else?”

“Because I’m jealous!”

The simple honesty stops the familiar simmering of disdain that usually builds to a boil when he and Brian get into arguments. Deacy’s stupid heart stutters again. He looks at Brian like he’s a puzzle to solve, openly confused.

Brian notices Deacy’s shift in temperament after his admission. He was prepared to throw the younger man’s earlier sass back in his face if the argument went in the usual manner. Instead, he softens his voice, hoping for an equally soft response. “Deacy, why are you upset that I didn’t go to practice? Or that I left the disco early?”

John stares at his curls, already coiling their way back to strength, as he answers, afraid if he looked into the hazel eyes he’d be too overwhelmed to speak. “I missed you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, a Bridget Jones cameo because, well, you know.


	6. So Sad My Eyes, She Cannot See

“Your request for an extension is denied.”

John fights the urge to fiddle nervously with his hair. “I’ve never made a request like this before-”

“Extensions and other special requests are only considered for emergencies,” Professor Wickham interrupts. “This is an accelerated program that you’re fortunate to be part of.”

“And I am grateful for the opportunity-”

Wickham interrupts again. “Then you should take it seriously and do the work on the required timetable. No excuses.”

||

The band finally has enough money scrounged together to finish the demo thanks to Freddie’s resourcefulness.

(“You sold my van!”

“For twice its value!” Freddie counters Roger’s outrage. “And it’s not like you’ve never sold my things before.”

“This isn’t like me selling your coat at the market, Freddie! We needed it for transporting our gear to gigs. Now, what are we to do?”

“We’ll manage. As we always do.”)

They do what they must during the day: studying, classes, tutoring, running the market stall, gigs, etc. At night and into the early hours of the morning, they record their demo.

It’s a marathon that’s delayed any progress on the Brian and Deacy situation.

Despite giving the bare minimum of admissions of feelings at Mary’s party, the two haven’t talked further.

There was one day Brian tried to initiate some kind of activity outside of Queen. “How about we do our studies together?”

Deacy had given him a panged look. “Uh, I have to go to the labs to work on my project.”

That’s about how well things had gone.

But the perseverance and romantic delays seem to pay off after a couple of weeks with a demo in their hands ready to spread around the London music scene and an upcoming music festival that offers the opportunity to outperform all the other wannabe rock stars clamoring for their big break.

They can’t slow down now.

||

Determined to make their 15 minutes at the festival flawless, the band rehearses an extra night during the week prior.

John and Brian are the first to show for the last night of rehearsals, movements slow as molasses as they set up and plug everything. Calling them tired would be an understatement.

Brian doesn’t notice a stray cord as he moves away from the amp to which he’s just plugged the Red Special. Deacy turns just in time to see the guitar almost tossed at him to catch as Brian falls like a chopped tree.

“Jesus Christ!” Deacy shrieks, clutching the guitar like it’s a baby rescued from a burning car. “Brian! Fuck, are you okay?”

There’s only a long groan at first. Brian runs his tongue over his teeth to check that none had knocked loose when he hit the hardwood. Then he asks, “How’s the Old Lady?”

Deacy rolls his eyes. “The fucking guitar’s not broken, Brian. Now, what about you?”

Brian slowly lifts himself off the ground, checking mobility as he rises. “Think I’m fine. Always looks worse when I fall than it really is. Tall people problems.”

John releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding when the older man gets up completely. He reaches out for the guitar almost immediately. “Will you sit down and recollect yourself before worrying about the guitar?” he chastises. “I’ve got her.”

Brian huffs but sees the logic and moves to sit on one of the drumkit cases. Deacy moves with him to ensure there are no more accidents. He slings on the guitar strap so he can free his hands to pry open Brian’s eyes.

He squirms. “Deacy, what the hell? Do you even know what you’re supposed to be looking for?”

“Busted corneas, burst blood vessels, spontaneous exploding eyeballs.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“Cranial damage can do scary stuff, Brian.” Deacy’s hands start pawing through dark curls.

“I’m fine!”

John moves his head back to look at him skeptically. The eye contact alerts the boys to how close they are, and the skepticism in John’s eyes turns to tenderness. The hands in his hair, formerly pawing, are now petting, fingers gliding down and out over curls and returning to repeat the process.

Brian’s eyes flutter, his breathing speeding up. He’s reminded of what he’s been denying himself over the last few weeks. The residual aches in his body from the fall are nothing compared to what his heart has been going through. How Deacy had been close by, during all the studio sessions and rehearsals, but really, he’d never felt more out of reach to Brian.

Now that he has the chance, he lets himself get his fill of seeing John up close. He has the Red Special strapped to him, and it’s almost the equivalent of Deacy wearing Brian’s clothes. The allure is confounding but so satisfying in an almost primal way. When his eyes can finally tear away, he moves on to Deacy’s face, a familiar area of study that Brian’s allowed himself to indulge in more times than he would have previously acknowledged. Even though he wants to focus on what he’s reading as desire, he can’t help but see the obvious exhaustion.

He spreads his legs and wraps his hands around John’s back to pull him as close as possible with the guitar between them. The hands stay satisfyingly in his hair, and he tilts his head back to keep looking up at the sweet face.

“How are you holding up?” Brian asks in a whisper.

John blinks quickly. “I’m,” he starts and trails, the question unexpected, “managing,” comes the familiar answer.

Brian knows not to believe him this time. He also knows not to push him, Deacy’s moods being fickle when it comes to these rare moments of intimate honesty between them. He sneaks a hand between the arms bracketing his head to brush a thumb under a tired eye, quietly alerting John of his concerns before reaching behind his head to pull him down to meet his lips.

The room door bursts open.

“Deacy, darling, I have no clue how you get to anything on time relying on public transport.”

“Oh, right, it was the tube’s fault you couldn’t find your notecase in our home.”

The tardy bandmates freeze when they finally notice that Brian and John are quite close together. Deacy quickly spins around almost smacking Brian with the neck of his guitar.

“Uhhh,” Roger eloquently starts, “we’re so sorry.” Whether he means they’re sorry for being late or for interrupting something very private, he leaves for ambiguity and interpretation.

“What?” Deacy responds, shaking himself out of his daze. “It’s, uh, it’s fine. Let’s not waste any more time though.” He quickly takes off the guitar strap and hands the Red Special back without looking at Brian.

“Deacy,” he whispers as he takes the offered instrument.

John ignores him and goes to retrieve his bass.

Freddie mouths “sorry” to Brian as he goes to fetch his microphone. Roger squeezes Brian’s shoulder in passing as he goes to check on his drums.

They still have work to do to get this next performance perfect. It really could change everything for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, Brian. Sooo close though.


	7. Needing — Unheard

It’s better than perfect. Queen blows the nonexistent roof off the field they perform in.

They floor the metaphorical pedal from the start with “Keep Yourself Alive,” never let up through “Great King Rat,” rattle the crowd-control railings with “Modern Times Rock ‘N Roll,” and might legitimately be the cause of some heart attacks and pregnancies because of “Liar.”

They run out of copies of their demo and schedule a meeting with one of the labels that showed interest straightaway. Despite there having been several acts that followed them, as the night winds down, the crowd chants, “Queen! Queen! Queen!” The festival’s organizers ask for one more performance — and it’s hard to refuse.

|| 

_We shouldn’t have played that last set. We shouldn’t have played that last set. We shouldn’t have played that last set._

Deacy keeps chanting the phrase over and over in his head as he’s stood on the side of what seems to be more dirt than paved road watching Roger stare cluelessly at the engine of their borrowed van.

It broke down. It broke down as they got undeniably lost. It broke down as they got undeniably lost in the fucking sticks at close to 3 in the morning.

“What’s wrong with it?” Freddie asks.

“This bloody thing isn’t like my van, Fred. I haven’t the first clue what its issues are.”

John begins to pace. “There’s something to be done. There has to be!”

“Well, Deacy, you’re welcome to it,” Roger barks, “because I’m tapped out of ideas with no tools and no light to even see what’s the matter.”

“All right!” Brian intercedes. “We’re all frustrated.”

“I have to get back home,” John insists.

“We all want to get home,” Brian reasons.

“I have a presentation to make at 8! If I don’t show, I’ll fail the course and the whole semester will have been a waste.”

“Why did you schedule it the morning after the festival?” Freddie asks.

“You think I had a choice? I couldn’t get my deadline extended. Professor Wickham refused.”

“Perhaps if you explained-”

“Brian, did you not hear the part where I said he refused an extension? You think he’ll forgive missing my scheduled time?”

Brian glances helplessly at Roger and Freddie.

“And why aren’t _you_ more alarmed by being stranded in the dead of night? Don’t you have work to get to on a Monday?”

Brian swallows hard. “I don’t have much to address anymore — starting Monday.”

Deacy shakes his head in confusion.

“I have one final paper to submit for the semester, and after that, I’ll take a break.”

“What?”

“I’m putting in my notice to discontinue my dissertation studies.”

“You’re quitting?”

“It’s a break,” Brian sternly insists.

Deacy huffs in disbelief. “Why now?”

“Because I’m so _tired_ ,” he almost yells out of frustration. “I’ve told you, we’re busier and more popular than ever. I’ve tried to keep doing it all, but tonight just proved how close we are to being real, working musicians with so much more ahead of us.”

Deacy looks lost. “Right,” he mutters. “You’re right. That’s sensible.”

Brian ponders why John has been so invested in Brian’s studies and realizes the implications of his choice to take a break. “Deacy, my decision has nothing to do with your studies or place in the band.”

“Oh, right,” Deacy scoffs. “You’re sacrificing your dissertation for the band. Seems like the kind of decision I should be willing to make, as well.”

“What? No! You don’t have to choose between the two.”

“Obviously, I have to if the great Brian May can’t make it work!”

Brian tightens his jaw, willing himself to keep his composure. “It’s different for me. I’ve gotten quite far in my academic career. I can afford to focus on music for now.”

“You can afford to because you see the success you crave as imminent. Well, I don’t want fucking stardom. I’ve told you that I’m not made for that.”

Brian finally snaps. “Who are you trying to fool, Deacy?! You love playing your bass till your fingertips practically bleed. You love the girls who claw for your attention. You love correcting us on timing and everything else under the sun. And you love being the technical and financial wizard behind the scenes.” He gets right into John’s face. “So, stop stringing us along as if Queen isn’t as important to you as it is to the rest of us.”

Deacy’s stare is as cold as ice. “Don’t you mean stop stringing _you_ along?”

Brian blinks. “What?”

“There’s enough pressure being in this group — for which I’m paying for now. I don’t need the added pressure of its guitarist fancying me.”

Brian looks as if he’d been slapped. His eyes go unfocused and his breathing gets deeper. He shakily exhales. “I’m sorry my feelings have been such a burden for you.” He turns and starts walking away.

“Bri-Brian, where are you going?” Freddie asks.

“To the petrol station we passed a couple of kilometers back.” Brian answers without looking back.

“Wait!” Roger yells. “I’m coming with you!”

Brian doesn’t wait. Just keeps walking.

||

“Darling, what was that horseshit?” Freddie asks when Brian and Roger are far enough away without hearing.

John glares. “It was just another argument. You’ve seen enough of those from us.”

“Yes, I have,” he says, dryly. “But that was no argument. A normal argument between you two is a heated but balanced exchange of ideas and opinions that ultimately results in the betterment of whatever is being discussed.” Freddie stops leaning on the van to move closer to Deacy’s space. “What I just saw was you taking your frustrations and anger out on someone who doesn’t deserve it.”

Deacy crumbles immediately. “Freddie, what did I just do?” he whimpers. “I just got so defensive.”

“I know, dear.”

“When he said he wasn’t going to work on his doctorate, it was like my last hope for being able to do my own studies and play with the band had vanished. And now that I’ve essentially failed my course, I just don’t see that I can manage it all anymore.”

“Darling, I have to say this again — and know that this comes from a place in my heart that cares and loves you deeply — but that is horseshit.”

Deacy scrunches his face, affronted.

“You’ve hit a minor bump in the road,” Freddie explains. “So, you fail one course. You take it again. You take others. You keep trying. Do you honestly believe if you didn’t have the band, that if you only had your schoolwork, that it would all go off without a hitch?”

John goes demure over the thought. “Um, I suppose not.”

“It’s the same with the band,” Freddie continues. “Things seem to finally be getting off the ground for us, but that doesn’t mean everything will go smoothly from now on. Honestly, I can guarantee that they won’t. A record _deal_ doesn’t guarantee record _sales_.”

Deacy nods his understanding.

Freddie smooths his hands over Deacy’s arms like he’s helping to keep him warm. “We keep trying though. We don’t give up, because it’s important to us. We love the music, we love to perform.”

John suddenly feels warmer from Freddie’s wise words and tender touches. Maybe he was cold after all.

“You feel all those things too, don’t you? You love being part of Queen?”

“Of course.”

“Then don’t give up because you’re afraid of what could happen. Now, _after_ you experience the madness that is surely going to be part of being in a successful rock band, and you judge it to be not for you or you’re just fed up with it all or you’ve exhausted all its possibilities, then, by all means, leave it behind and never look back. But to quit before you’ve even started, well, those are the greatest regrets people tend to carry throughout life.”

Deacy gives Freddie a watery smile, along with a sob, and hugs the older man as hard as he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Might have slipped some of my feelings about John's real retirement into this one. Also, Freddie's such a good big brother <3


	8. Pleading — One Word

For the second time this week, John enters Chelsea College’s electronics department determined to get Professor Wickham to hear his presentation.

The first time had been that Monday morning after the festival. Brian and Roger had returned with a mechanic who managed to fix the issue roadside, but all the time taken getting back on the road and figuring out the way meant they didn’t get home until close to 9. John had gone anyway hoping Wickham would take pity on him and squeeze in his presentation.

There was no pity. (“With the level of irresponsibility that you’ve shown, you’re lucky if I allow you to remain in the program. Failing one course is a mercy, Mr. Deacon.”)

Some people carrying furniture pass as he approaches Wickham’s office. The door’s open as even more movers come and go, and Wickham’s name is in the process of being removed from the glass. Lacking the ability to knock, he steps inside to investigate.

Wickham isn’t to be seen. Instead, he finds another of his instructors with whom he’s had more amiable dealings.

“Professor Bingley?”

The older woman with silver-blond hair looks up from arranging framed photographs of several women on a desk. “Mr. Deacon! Such serendipity. I’ve been in need of contacting you.”

She has? “I, um, came looking for Professor Wickham.”

“He submitted his resignation effective immediately. I’m to take over his position as head of the department.”

What?! Oh, God, there’s no chance for his presentation now. “But-”

“The strangest decision,” she continues. “No one was expecting it, but he wouldn’t be persuaded against leaving.”

The despair already taking residence within John is threatening to burst forth.

“And in the middle of exams and dissertations! The nerve,” Bingley mutters. “Apologies, Mr. Deacon, I shouldn’t express such frustrations in front of you. You just remind me so much of my sister that it’s easy.” She points to a photo of a lovely brunette woman and a rather serious-looking gentleman with lengthy sideburns. “Anyway, you must be here concerning the fate of your final project.”

The mention of his project interrupts his impending panic attack. “My project?”

“Along with taking over the department as of now, I have to handle any presentations, examinations, and finalization of grades Professor Wickham had yet to see to. You were at the top of the list he left needing immediate attention.”

John slowly gets his brain to comprehend what Bingley is saying. “… You are to grade my project presentation?”

“Yes, as soon as possible.”

John’s dangerously close to hyperventilating out of relief of all things. “Right,” he wheezes out.

“Is first thing in the morning all right?”

“Yes!” Deacy answers without hesitation.

“Excellent!” Professor Bingley’s already looking back at her photos, lovingly wiping nonexistent dust off her wedding portrait. “Pop into the administration office and schedule it.”

Deacy nods energetically. “Th-thank you, Professor!” He sprints out quickly, elated and grateful. He can’t wait to tell Bri-, um, well.

His lip quivers, the hurt like a splash of cold water on the excitement he was feeling.

He can tell Roger and Freddie, at least.

||

John finds Freddie at the Kensington Market stall trying to convince a middle-aged woman that she absolutely must own a rhinestone-studded white denim coat with tassels.

“Darling, it is handmade, painstakingly bejeweled.”

“By you?” she asks.

“Oh, Christ, no!”

John snorts at Freddie’s obvious disgust with the garment. It’s hard to gauge what Freddie’s tastes are, but apparently there’s a level of kitsch that’s too tacky even for him.

Freddie clears his throat. “It is one of a kind, worn once by the incomparable Liza Minelli.”

“Who’s Liza Minelli?”

Freddie’s eyes turn into daggers. “Excuse me? You can’t be serious? ‘Who’s Liza-,’ ” he stops himself from completing such a hideous sentence. “I’m sorry, but you don’t deserve this coat. Move along, please.”

The salesman and lead singer of Queen finally takes notice of his bandmate once the baffled woman flees the stall. “Deacy! What brings you by, dear?”

“I have great news. Where’s Rog? I want to tell him too.”

“I’m in the back, Deacs!”

“Come into our office, dearie.” Freddie pulls back the dividing curtain that serves as their door during operating hours.

Roger’s unpacking something. “Freddie, what the hell are these?”

“Scarves?”

“They’re fabric scraps,” Roger corrects.

“That we can sell as scarves!”

“Right,” Roger ignores the explanation. “Hey, Deacy. What’s happenin’?”

“You’re not going to believe this, but I’m going to be able to present my project after all! Wickham’s resigning and another instructor is going to grade my presentation. For whatever reason, he left me on a list of students to be graded. Can you believe it? Maybe Professor Wickham wasn’t really so bad, yeah?”

His friends blankly stare in response.

“You two are clearly too overjoyed to respond properly,” John dryly rationalizes. “Understandable.”

Roger and Freddie look at one another, silently conferring about something, until finally Roger speaks. “He needs to know the truth.”

Freddie side-eyes him. “We promised Brian we wouldn’t tell.”

“And you really meant it?”

Freddie ponders. “It’s quite juicy, isn’t it? Almost heroic if Brian hadn’t gotten sloshed at the end.”

“What are you talking about?!” Deacy breaks from the mentioning of Brian (and being left out of apparently seedy gossip).

Roger nods for Freddie to start.

“Darling, your Professor Wickham didn’t change his mind about your project out of the goodness of his heart. It was because of Brian.”

John’s jaw drops. “In what way?” He runs all manner of ludicrous scenarios through his head. “Did he threaten him?”

“No, no,” Freddie nixes. “Brian’s about as violent as a pile of newborn kittens.”

Roger takes over. “Brian found out the pub Wickham frequents in the hopes of meeting him and pleading to change his mind about refusing to hear your presentation.”

“When Wickham arrived,” Freddie jumps in, “he got into a booth that was already occupied by a young man, who was likely a student. Brian watched as the two exchanged no words but did exchange envelopes, under the table, and then the man left. Wickham opened his envelope and was obviously counting notes.”

“Wickham’s selling drugs?” Deacy asks, incredulous.

“I would have thought that too! I mean, I’ve known some professors who can _party_ ,” Freddie digresses, “but Brian, luckily, went with his intuition that the exchange was for test answers.”

“So, Brian goes to the table and confronts him about what he saw,” Roger says.

“Brian blackmailed him?” Deacy wonders.

“With what leverage?” Roger asks. “He didn’t have any physical evidence to hold over Wickham.”

“Then how?!” Again, John’s quite tetchy about Brian and almost failing his course. They need to wrap this up.

“Deacy, dear, you’ve fought with Brian before. What’s his debate weapon of choice?”

He doesn’t have to think long on it. “Righteous indignation?”

“Exactly!” Roger confirms. “He fucking shamed the man into changing his mind.”

Freddie nods. "As a fellow scholar, Brian gave him the most thorough lecture about the moral responsibility of professors and other persons of leadership within academia to help their pupils gain knowledge through dedication, inspiration, and initiative. And now that he's failed miserably at that, he should do the honorable thing and resign from his position."

"He made Wickham cry!" Roger says, gleeful. "He got some sob story about how his new, very young wife thinks professors make a million pounds a year, and he had to find ways to make money on the side to keep up with her expectations."

Freddie takes over again. "Then Brian got completely plastered with the man because he was sad over you," Deacy winces, "and they bonded over being weak for fickle, pretty young things."

"And that's how Brian saved your arse." Roger crosses his arms in a manner to cut off any possible questioning of the legitimacy of their account.

Deacy can only blink at first, eventually mustering a "wow." Brian did all that for him? After what John had told him? The regret comes crashing down on him then. "Fuck! I'm such a prick!"

Freddie and Roger nod in agreement.

"What do I do?!" he panics. "I have to fix this." 

"Dearie," Freddie with Roger come over to lay soothing hands on him, "first, be honest with  _yourself_  about how you feel, then talk to him."

"You love him, don't you?" Roger asks.

And the moment Deacy hears the L-word in connection with Brian — he of overwrought guitar solos, fierce drive, awe-inspiring intelligence, and infinite kindness — he knows the answer. "Yes, I do."  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, Deacy! Now, go get your man! Also, yes, that's Jane, aka Professor Bingley :)


	9. No Tears in My Eyes

Deacy knocks rapidly on Brian’s door, as rapidly as the beat of his heart, which feels like might punch through his chest at any moment. He hears the unlatching of locks. The door cracks open revealing a tall sliver of Brian.

Deacy manages a squeaky “Hi.”

“John.”

Deacy waits and hopes for more to come from the other man. A “What are you doing here?” or a “How are you?” or even a “Fuck off.” But nothing more comes. The silence exposes far more of the pain he’s inflicted than any of the barbed words they’ve exchanged during past fights.

“Can I come in?” John almost pleads.

Brian opens the door wide in response.

Deacy’s only been in the tiny loft apartment a handful of times. (They typically congregate at Freddie and Roger’s flat.) The bed in the center is a pullout that’s never properly put away. It, like much of the floor and small desk, is covered with books and records and sheet music and a ukulele and ephemera. Possessing such a large mind requires constant feeding and stimulation, John muses.

He stays stood near the door while Brian goes to the farthest corner of the room near the bed, too far away from Deacy.

Deep breath. “I’m going to be able to present my project after all.”

“That’s great, John,” he says mildly, not disingenuous but obviously wary of what else Deacy has to say.  

“I also had a funny conversation with Roger and Freddie about my miracle reprieve.”

Brian groans, looking at the nearest wall instead of John.

“Thank you, Brian.”

He waves off the gratitude.

“And I’m sorry.”

He looks back, curious.

“I was cruel. I used your feelings as another reason to keep myself from fully committing to Queen’s success and future.”

Brian’s face softens at the confession.

“I want it all,” John continues, determined. “I want to complete my degree and not just barely do so. I want top marks, I want honors. I want to learn all I can in an area of study I find endlessly fascinating, and I want to achieve the high level I know I’m capable of achieving.

“I want to keep performing in Queen. I want to be part of this incredible entity we’re becoming, to express myself through music without inhibition. And I’ll admit that I’m still a little anxious about how well I’ll handle our eventual popularity, but I’ll face it. Fear won’t make my decisions for me. It won’t cause me to miss out on the opportunity of a lifetime.”

Brian’s formerly sad eyes are solemn and affirming now. “We’ll be right there to help, Deacy.”

“I know,” he smiles. “I’ll have Freddie to big brother me to pieces. He’ll be my voice metaphorically and literally because I can’t sing to save my soul.”

Brian opens his mouth to object, but John waves him off.

“I’ll have Roger there to kick my arse when I’m being too tough on myself or too serious about something.”

Deacy looks unwaveringly at Brian. “And I’ll have you,” he starts to move closer. “To inspire me,” he punctuates with a step. “To challenge me,” another step. “To support me,” yet another. Deep breath. Last step. “To love me,” and a cautious amendment, “eventually, I hope.”

Brian's stunned, eyes keenly looking at Deacy, studying him for any hint of malice or insincerity. He opens and closes his mouth as if words are trying to escape. One tiny word, however, finally tumbles out: “No.”

John’s eyes fall shut, his lips go dry. It’s his darkest fear realized. He spoke too late _._

“John,” Brian whispers. “Deacy,” a little more forcefully. He won’t open his eyes, holding back tears. Brian cups his face with both hands. “You misunderstand me.”

“You said no,” he responds, eyelids still clenched. “That’s pretty fucking clear.”

Brian huffs. “I meant there’s no eventually,” he explains, his voice strong yet tender. “You have all those things and more from me already.” He presses their foreheads together and patiently waits for Deacy’s eyes to flutter open. “You have my love, now and for evermore.”

"Oh," John releases a long, shaky breath. His smile is immediate and blinding. Eyes full of surprise and wonder and excitement — and mischief. "You dummy! Who leads a declaration of love with the word 'no'?!"

Brian gives a sly smile. "I couldn't make it easy on you. After everything you've put me through."

"Well, it would have been more gentlemanly and less  _petty_ if you-"

Brian cuts off Deacy's adorable snark with a giddy kiss. 

They’re smiling into each other’s mouths, more silly than passionate. Deacy can’t contain the relief he feels and collapses them down to the bed in excitement.

“Ow! I’m lying on my books.” Brian holds his upper body up on the back of his elbows.

“Oh, sorry.” John pulls one offending book from underneath the man’s back. It’s open and the pages are densely filled with tables and charts. It reminds him of another topic he’d wanted to address. “You should keep working on your doctorate.”

Brian looks at the book like it might bite him. “It’s just a break,” he weakly proclaims.

“Like you’ve said, we’re on the brink. Queen’s demands will only snowball.” He sets the book down and shoves away everything else so Brian can lie back properly — and Deacy on top of him. “I can’t do this all alone.”

“Deacy, you know I’ll help you.”

“And _I_   will help _you_.” A finger fiddles with one of Brian’s curls. He brushes their noses against each other. John smiles fondly at the man below him realizing that his sweet gestures aren’t totally foreign between them. Brian and John have been flirting as much as they’ve been fighting over the last several months that he’s been in the band. “We can do this together.”

Brian’s caught up in their closeness, holding back Deacy’s hair and turning on hooded, bedroom eyes. “I’ll think about,” he finally responds.

“Stubborn,” John insists. “It’ll work out. Just admit I’m right.”

“Never.” Brian flips them over suddenly to get on top and to press the petulant, perfect man into the bed. He kisses Deacy fiercely and just on the right side of filthy. When he pulls back with a wicked, challenging smirk, he’s happy to see a matching one on Deacy’s face.

Brian won’t admit it to him now, but Deacy’s right. It’ll all work out.


	10. Epilogue: It Ends as It Began

“What was wrong with that one?” Brian asks immediately after finishing his umpteenth take, already knowing Deacy will have something to say about it.

“You’re still doing too much, too many frills. It’s dragging down the song.”

“I’m not dragging down anything! The song needs a lengthier bridge.”

“We’re only recording one album here, Brian. Ramp it up faster!”

John’s sat at the mixing console next to Roy, their producer, while Freddie and Roger are sat on the couch in the back of the control room, out of the line of fire.

“Freddie?”

“Yes, Rog?”

“I thought once those two were shagging on a regular basis, all the bitching would end.”

“I’m afraid we were very naïve.”

Brian comments that John wants a short bridge to match his short attention span. Deacy tells Brian to “get out of the fucking Baroque era, Granddad.”

Freddie and Roger give the heaviest of sighs.

“Babe, we have to go,” Deacy says mid-snark. “It’s half past.”

“Oh, no,” Freddie says, flatly, failing at a disappointed tone, “you’re going so soon?”

“I have reading to catch up on,” John explains as he gets up, “and Brian has an oral tomorrow to prepare for.”

Roger presses the microphone button. “If you pack up quick enough, Bri, I’m sure you’ll have oral tonight, as well.”

Brian almost drops his guitar. “Oral exam! I have an oral  _exam_ tomorrow! Sorry, Roy!”

The man gives an easy shrug.

John smirks and pushes the button again. “Rog isn't wrong, Brian.”

“Deacy!” Brian shrieks before he cuts the mic, the “for fuck’s sake” can be read on his lips.

Brian opens the control room door and locks eyes with John. “You have my bag, love?”

“Of course.”

Brian takes the bag with one hand and reaches to hold Deacy’s hand with the other. “You lot will be fine recording without us?”

“YES!” Roger, Freddie, and Roy shout with gusto. Roger adds a “Please, go!” for good measure.

“See you tomorrow then.” Deacy waves before leading Brian away and closing the door behind them.

The three men breathe a sigh of relief.

“They fight like that and they're _dating_?” Roy asks, bewildered.

Roger and Freddie nod.

“Is that the worst of the fighting from all of you?”

“Oh, God, no!” Freddie exclaims with a sharp laugh. “Roy, darling, strap yourself in. We’re just getting started.”

-end-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all really enjoyed this little fic of mine, an ode to an underappreciated pairing that’s fueled by years of watching Brit rom-coms. Fun fact: This is the longest fic I’ve ever written in any fandom. The power of Queen, really. Thanks for reading!


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